Our time spent together became more and more strained as we drifted further apart. Her smile began to dim and sometimes, when she did come and stay, she would fall asleep on the couch after I had gone to bed. We were intimate a few times, but the actual act? She was genuinely frightened, still healing from her event, and thus we never actually had sex.
As the days and weeks passed, Tami and I began to see less and less of each other. Neither of us, as far as I knew, saw anybody else. I remember sitting on her father’s porch one night, Joe still working at the shop, wanting to talk about our future. I don’t know whether it was my words or her misunderstanding, or a little of both. But it had ended up sinking into a tearful shouting match that neither of us understood. I ended up telling her of my plans to travel and she didn’t want to come with me. She had simply told me to go and see what happens. I left the following week, and even though we began to write letters to each other, even they dried up after several months.
I knew I still had strong feelings for Tami, but at the time, didn’t know how to act on them. In the end, I bottled them up, stored them on the back shelf of my heart, and left them there, ready and waiting for when I would once again have the strength to open them.
8.
“Jim?” It was Steph’s voice that snapped me from my daydream, a gentle knocking accompanying her near whisper. “Jim? You awake?” I jumped out of bed and half walked, half staggered as I pulled on my pants and shuffled to the door. I opened it to find her standing in the hallway in her police uniform. She looked ready for official business.
“Give me a quick minute to shower? Oh, and one guess who I met yesterday?” She looked at me, puzzled. “Richard Lovett. You know, the lawyer?” Realization dawned across her face.
“What did he want?”
“An autograph,” I said. Her look amused me and I giggled a little. “No, I didn’t give him one. Five minutes?” I said, standing in the doorway to my bathroom.
“Sure. I’ll be down in the bistro,” she said and headed back down the hall.
I caught up with Steph about twenty minutes later, feeling clean and refreshed. She was sitting alone at a table, sipping a coffee and reading a newspaper. She smiled when she saw me, put her cup down and stood.
“Ready?” I asked and we walked out. Tami was at the counter and winked at me as I walked past. I felt a tingle, remembering the way I had seen her less than an hour before.
As we jumped into Steph’s car, I asked, “Off to Clancy?” but she shook her head.
“I had an interesting conversation with another officer last night. You haven’t met Linda yet, but she’s been a cop at Daylesford for a few years. She rang me last night,” she paused long enough to jump in her side of the car and once we were both inside, continued, “and what she told me made me think.” She paused to light a cigarette.
“What did she tell you?”
“Her hubby has a mate who works at the old Jackson Street Mill. Has worked there for the better part of 30 years. Can you guess who used to work under him?”
“Lightman?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yup, and I’m hoping that he might have an idea of anybody Lightman hung around with that may have some input on the recent killings.”
The mill was about 20 minutes out of town, almost halfway between Cider Hill and Daylesford. We chatted as we drove, coming up with some questions that we wanted to ask, hopefully finding some sort of lead. God knows we could use a good one.
9.
The parking lot out the front of the wood mill was almost completely deserted. It wasn’t common for the mill to be operating on a Saturday, but Richard Sadler had always insisted that a skeleton crew spent the morning cleaning the machines ready for a new week, paying the men double their usual rate for the four hours. He had taken over the running of the mill after his father, John, retired ten years earlier. Richard had been quite young at the time, only 28, but took to running the 40-man operation in his stride. Darren Fermaner, the mate Steph was talking about, had been working at the mill for the better part of 35 years, the last 10 as the mill’s foreman. He was also famous around town for another reason; his unbelievable ability to sink beer. It was how he earnt the nickname “Keg”.
Richard Sadler came out of the small side office as we pulled into the parking lot, almost on cue, as if he had been expecting us. He wore a warm smile and greeted Steph with a hug as soon as she climbed out of her side.
“Steph, so good to see you,” he said with a welcoming tone.
“Rich, this is Jim Lawson,” she said, turning towards me. Richard held out a hand and shook with me.
“Pleased to me you, Mr Lawson.”
“Jim, please,” I said.
“Rich, could we speak with Daz, please?” Steph said. The man looked at her for a moment, his smile fading slightly. Then it returned almost as quick.
“Keg? Sure thing. He’s down at the dumping shed,”
